Page 5 of Rent a Mob Boss

“Nothing changes for her,” I tell him, flat and hard. He doesn’t say a word, only nods again and keeps looking out the window while the driver takes the turn into the driveway.

A man in my position has rules he must abide by. Those rules can change, depending on the specifics—whether he has a wife, kids, something on the side. No matter the window dressing, the basics remain the same. A man protects what belongs to him.

That means not only protecting my daughter’s physical wellbeing. It means that once my car rolls through the open gate and takes the driveway up to the house, I set everything down at the door. I do not bring it inside, where my daughter sleeps and plays and lives and, because she’s only five years old, thinks I work in a big office building in the city.

It’s been a long day. I don’t normally stay away from the house this late, especially since I like to be around to kiss Lillie goodnight whenever possible. Considering it’s almost midnight, she had better be asleep—I’ll check on her before heading to my room. The house is dark, the grounds are quiet, but something’s off. Something is there that shouldn’t be there at this point in the night. Quinn’s car.

Tristan is already making arrangements on his phone when I climb out and take the front steps. Why is she still here? If something had gone wrong tonight, I would’ve gotten a call, either from her or from Ms. Beaumont. No calls, which tells me my daughter’s nanny was completely worn out by my rambunctious five-year-old. I shouldn’t be in such a hurry to get inside and see her. I know that. Everything in me tells me so. But I can’t ignore how much lighter my feet feel as I take the front steps, when only minutes ago I was tired in my bones.

The front hall is dark. The only light from where I stand comes from the family room, down the hall to the right of the staircase. I follow the glow and stop in the doorway when I find exactly what I knew I’d find.

Quinn is asleep on the couch. On her side, with one arm under her cheek while the other hangs off the edge. There’s no doubt in my mind Lillie ran her ragged today, though it must have been especially challenging if she passed out after putting her down.

To be sure everything’s all right, I jog upstairs and ease the door open. My daughter is out cold, much like Quinn, one little hand on the pillow next to her face, half buried in stuffed animals as always. I brush a dark curl away from her forehead and place a kiss there, breathing in her fresh scent for a moment or two before I head back down to where Quinn is sleeping.

It’s all wrong, how much I think about this girl. She’s twenty years old, with her entire life ahead of her. She’s beautiful, innocent, filled with youthful optimism and energy. I have no business interfering with any of it.

It’s a shame I can’t seem to remember that as I watch her sleep once I’ve reached the sofa again. I know I’m no better than some pervert, a creep staring at a girl who can’t tell me to get lost. That doesn’t stop me from staring.

I’ve been around beautiful things my entire life. You buy them and put them on the shelf. By the second week, they’ve stopped meaning anything.

This isn’t that. I’ve known it wasn’t that for months, and I’ve been careful about it, the way I’m careful about anything that can go wrong in the blink of an eye. My daughter adores this girl, and the feeling seems to be mutual. It would break Lillie’s heart if I scared Quinn off by revealing even a fraction of how much time I spend thinking about her.

What would she think if she knew I rearranged my mornings to be sure I run into her? To say nothing of the way she shows up in my fantasies, my dreams.

There’s a blanket folded over the arm of the sofa. I shake it out and lay it over her slowly, so I don’t wake her. It would be cruel, waking her now, and it’s too late for her to be driving home anyway. She’s never spent the night here before. I’ve often imagined her doing just that… though in my fantasies, she wasn’t sleeping in a different room. Let’s put it that way.

For a second, I’m close enough to see the pulse move in her throat. She frowns slightly in her sleep, but it passes. My grip tightens around the edge of the blanket before I let it go. I want this girl. I want to make her mine; in a way I want very few things.

This isn’t like before. My marriage was arranged before I was old enough to have an opinion anyone cared about. My father and another man drew a line on a map with two children standing on it. Sofia and I did our duty, and Lillie came out of it. It’s the only good thing either of us managed. Sofia was elegant and cold, and never really mine, though I never expected her to be. Wanting wasn’t something I understood as being available to a man like me.

Now there’s a girl on my couch with a green paint smudge on her hand, wearing mismatched socks, and I want her in a way I made it a point to shut down a long time ago.

Her phone rattles on the coffee table. I look at it before I decide to—a habit, the same as anyone, I’m sure. A phone buzzes, you look down to see why. There’s a message on the screen.

Mom: Last chance, sweetheart. Plus one for the party or no? Need to tell the caterer. Love you. No pressure!!

That, plus an emoji that makes me lift the phone to take a closer look. An apple. What does an apple have to do with anything?

The question moves across my mind before I return to the meat of the message. Plus one.

I don’t like it. The thought of her going to an event with some boy her own age, a boy with clean hands and a future that doesn’t need a wall around it. The kind of boy who could stand next to her at an event without ever having to sweep the room in advance. It bothers me more than it has any right to—and I let it, too, because pretending I don’t feel a thing has never once made it go away.

The phone buzzes again in my hand, and I drop it in surprise. It clatters against the leg of the table loudly enough that Quinn sits straight up, eyes wide.

“I didn’t eat the last one!” She’s wild-eyed, hair everywhere, one hand raised like she’s swearing on something. “It was the witch! I saw her!”

I’m not sure what to do with that.

Her eyes flutter and color rises in her cheeks, and it’s obvious she realizes now where she is—especially when she looks up at me and the color deepens. “Oh my god,” she whispers.

“A witch?” It’s not easy keeping a straight face. “What did she eat, exactly?”

She groans. “I don’t know. I was dreaming. Sometimes I do that. When I wake up suddenly, the dream sort of bleeds into reality, and I say random things. My family used to crack up when I’d do it.” She covers her mouth to contain a yawn.

Then her hand drops. “What time is it?”

“Late.”